Take the Wheel
by EvenAtMyDarkest
Summary: Shortly after the events of "Changing Channels," Sam is turned into the Impala again.


_Warnings: Language. Nothing worse than what's in the show._

* * *

Dean wakes up the morning after the world was TV-ified and normalized again to find Sam notably absent.

It doesn't take him long after the Impala comes into his line of sight to figure out what happened.

"Dean?" the automated voice of his brother says when he opens the door. "I'm the car again."

"Ah, crap."

* * *

They cannot figure out why the Trickster—Gabriel—would do this. After a lengthy discussion with Sam the Impala, Dean concludes that the best thing to do here is to request angelic assistance.

Dean pulls over on one of those middle-of-nowhere-not-a-car-in-sight roads and bows his head a little. "Um, dear Castiel, we pray that you get the hell down here… Help would be really, er, helpful right now. Um, for the kingdom and glory are yours, now and forever amen."

"The kingdom and glory—and _power_ —are not mine, Dean," Cas says.

Dean turns. The angel is standing in the middle of the road, looking just the same as he always does. "Cas."

"What seems to be the…" Castiel trails off as he furrows his brow, taking a good long look at the Impala. Something changes in his face as he realizes. "Oh."

"Wassup, Cas," Sam says dryly.

"Yeah," Dean says as he steps out of the car—Sam— _damn, that's gunna be confusing_ —and shuts the door.

"Ow," Sam says mildly, and Dean grimaces.

"Yeah, sorry. Anyway, Cas, can you fix him?"

"I assume this was Gabriel?"

"Yeah, so do we." After a short pause Dean realizes that Cas missed the similar fiasco earlier. "Actually, he did this earlier and changed Sam back, but now it's happened again."

"Dean," Castiel says grimly, not that he doesn't normally sound grim, "I can't fix this."

Dean blinks. "Come again?"

"Come again?" Sam says.

"Gabriel is too powerful. I can't undo what he's done."

"But…" Dean tries to process this. "There's gotta be something. Can't you find him? We can trap him in holy fire and _make_ him change Sam back."

"And if he won't?" Castiel asks.

"We gank the son of a bitch," Dean says promptly. "Standard procedure. And don't give me that crap about how powerful he is. We'll find a way."

Cas looks torn. "I'll look for him. Once I find him— _if_ I find him—you do with the information what you will."

And he's gone.

* * *

The following morning Dean checks the fuel gauge and notices that the needle is slightly past the "Full" marker. Last he looked the tank was barely half full. He hasn't stopped for gas since then.

This makes no sense, and he articulates it to Sam.

"I've been able to feel myself converting the gas to energy, when I concentrate," his brother's voice answers. "It's almost like a heartbeat."

Dean sits there, blinking.

"It was kind of petering out, though, all throughout yesterday," Sam goes on. "By the end of the day it had just about stopped. I don't know what I'm running on now."

"Dammit, her mechanics shouldn't be changing. Your transmitted-into-a-car ass is screwing up my baby."

"Sorry. Gotta keep it interesting for you, dude."

Dean spends the rest of the day just driving around the little Georgia town in which they currently happen to be, keeping his eye on the gas gauge. The needle never wavers.

* * *

Soon enough Dean catches wind of a job, though he's sure if Sam were still able to use his laptop he'd have found one even quicker. He doesn't really want to, but Sam encourages him to check it out on his own.

The case happens to be a fairly simple one. The spirit of a woman's alcoholic uncle and surrogate father nearly killed her, the hospital put her in the mental ward for saying so, the admittedly superstitious brother insists that she's perfectly levelheaded and wouldn't have imagined something like this, blah blah blah.

Sam's parked outside when Dean questions both the siblings and the woman's doctor. It feels kind of weird having to ask all the questions, but there are no awkward pauses or anything. He probably reaches into his pocket to finger the keys a little too often, though.

He's parked down the road while Dean digs up the grave, which of course takes twice as long and is twice as hard as usual. He feels strangely naked doing it alone. He casts plenty of glances around, nervous about passersby, even though he knows the cemetery is closed—he had to break in himself.

He doesn't like this "no backup" thing.

* * *

It's even harder getting used to an empty passenger's seat.

"I miss having thumbs," Sam says one morning about two weeks after Castiel started his search. "I miss my body in general."

"Yeah, I can understand that," Dean replies after a pause, not sure what else to say. He loves his baby, but even he wouldn't want to get this up close and personal to her.

"There's the rumble of my engine, and the gear shifts and my wheels turning… but most of that, you control. I guess it's like the car equivalent of automatic bodily functions, but it's not the same. I mean, obviously."

"So damn weird," Dean says softly.

A pause. "I wish I could nod."

Dean snorts.

"Eating too. You better enjoy your pie all the more, man. Cars can't eat. I miss having a stomach. I can't even feel hunger."

Dean is silent for a long moment. "That must suck."

"Yeah," Sam agrees.

* * *

Another week later, Dean has just wrapped up his latest case and is walking up to the Sampala, saying, "Well, Sammy, you were right about that chick—a real shame she went Charlie Sheen, she was a great kisser," when he hears, "Agent Malcolm?" behind him and turns around to see a tall woman standing there. She was involved in the case in a sort of detached way, but didn't know any of the other victims personally.

She smiles uncertainly, and says, "Who you talking to?"

Dean panics just a bit. He's used to lying, but not being caught talking to a car. "My kid brother. Backseat." He taps the window without turning or stepping out of the way. "He's asleep. My mistake."

She gives him an odd look. "Who went Charlie Sheen?"

"That's… confidential. Can I help you?"

"I… I just wanted to thank you for sorting all this out. I can't tell you when the last time I got a decent night's sleep was."

Dean's leaning against the Sampala, and he knows by now that that's uncomfortable for Sam. When he realizes this he practically jumps off to stand up straight again. The woman raises her eyebrows, and he just says, "Happy to help, ma'am. You have a good day," and practically throws the door open and leaps into the driver's seat.

When he pulls the door shut Sam says "Ow" vaguely. Then, "Smooth, Agent Malcolm."

"Oh, shut it."

* * *

It's been twenty-six days when Cas finally answers Dean's prayers. And he does not look happy.

"What's wrong?" Dean asks, terrified to hear the answer.

Cas seems to spend a second or two gathering his thoughts. "It's not good, Dean."

"I got that. You look like you just tasted something sour." He raises his hands and makes a _hit me_ gesture. "Let's hear it."

"Spit it out, Cas," Sam says, sounding just as apprehensive as Dean feels.

Cas obeys. "Gabriel is dead. Sam's condition is irreversible."

Dean is, for once in his life, speechless.

"I'm sorry," Cas says.

Dean blinks. He can't think. Sam's gone silent.

"Are you sure," Dean asks, finally, after Cas has spent some time standing there looking like he wishes he were anywhere but here, "it was legit? He's pulled crap like this before."

"Absolutely sure. I was thorough."

That's good enough for Dean. But, "You're saying Sam's gonna be a 1967 Chevy Impala… forever?"

Cas nods. "There is no way to undo it. Not anymore. I'm so sorry."

"You shut up. Just shut up right now."

"Dean—"

"No, shut up, okay? We've tackled stuff like this before, when people say there's nothing that can be done, and we found a way, okay? And this is no different. I just wish Gabriel _were_ still alive so I could kick his ass to heaven and back."

"Dean—" Cas tries again.

"No. Thank you for delivering the message, Castiel. We'll take it from here." Dean gets into the Sampala and slams the door, not thinking, but for the first time Sam doesn't articulate any kind of pain or discomfort. Dean buckles himself up and looks over to see, through the glass, Castiel still standing in the parking lot, looking forlorn as always. He's staring at Dean with a sympathetic yet utterly despondent expression on his face. Dean can't hear him through the glass, but he sees his lips form the words _I'm sorry_ one last time before he vanishes.

* * *

"I'm getting used to the feeling," Sam says two days later. "Being a car. At least there's that."

Dean is terrified by these words, perhaps more than anything he's heard since this whole mess started. "No. Don't say that, Sam. Never say that."

"Dean, it's okay, I still _remember_ what having arms and legs and fingers feels like…"

"Good. Never forget. Because if you're 'used' to being a car then that's just a sign that you're one step further from human than Gabriel—than any angel—could actually force you to be, and we're not going to let him win. Not now, not ever."

"I'm not going to forget, Dean."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

* * *

After that Dean is constantly on edge. If Sam hasn't spoken for more than half an hour, Dean gets scared and engages him in some sort of conversation, even if there's absolutely nothing to talk about.

He's not sure how this whole thing will pan out. Is Sam going to be a car until he breaks down? Gets scrapped? If the Impala won't run anymore, is simply too old, but Sam is still talking, how is Dean supposed to handle that? He will never send his brother to the junkyard.

He doesn't know what to do, what to expect. He's pretty sure no one ever wrote a "What To Expect When Your Brother Has Been Turned into a Car" manual.

Well… He wouldn't be surprised if Chuck has.

God, he hates their lives.

* * *

One more week and Dean is losing his mind. Sam's very quiet recently, but he never seems to have trouble responding to Dean's pokes and prods. He just doesn't want to say much. This realization doesn't exactly comfort Dean, or stay his constant nervousness. By Sam's word choice, he seems to be tentatively and freakishly accepting of this new reality. Certainly not happy with it, but maybe like he'll be okay with it eventually. But his long silences say something different.

"I dunno, dude, sometimes I think maybe I should just try to be the best car I can be," comes his brother's automated voice after a long period of silence, trusting Dean to seamlessly pick back up a conversation from hours before.

Dean snorts. "You're not a car. You're a Sasquatch."

* * *

Dean's been stuck in a case for nearly two weeks, burning a different body practically every night. Finally he gets the right one, and after staying another three days in the town just to be damn sure, he packs up his stuff in his brother's trunk and heads for South Dakota.

Bobby greets him at the door with a fierce hug and the words "You idjits have set more precedents for me in the last few years than I'd ever seen since I became a hunter. You don't have to try so hard, ya know."

Dean tries to smile. "Our bad. The things we'll do for recognition."

He shows Bobby to the Sampala, and the man seems understandably unsure of how to translate a hug into the car equivalent. He ends up just patting the hood of the car and saying, "Heya, Sam."

"Hi, Bobby," comes Sam's voice through the window.

Bobby looks at Dean, for once seeming to be at a loss for words.

"It's freakin' weird," Dean agrees.

* * *

Dean sets the alarm clock in Bobby's guest bedroom for earlier than he knows will feel reasonable, and yet by the time he struggles to consciousness, slips into a jacket and pair of boots, and pads out of the room, Bobby is sitting at his desk with a mess of angel- and transformation-related papers and books spread out before him, looking wide awake as he sips at his mug of black coffee.

He looks up at Dean, removing his reading glasses for a moment. "Mornin', princess," he greets sweetly. "Sleepin' twice as much now that your fairy godmother bippity-bopped your brother into a carriage that don't at all?"

"Shut up," Dean grouses, and stumbles into the kitchen to get coffee for himself.

* * *

Three full days of research later they turn up dry. Bobby has called everyone he can think of who might have information on the subject, but that number is admittedly low. "Hell," he's said more than once, "last year I'd have laughed in your face if you asked me advice that involved the assumption that angels were real. Transformers are next, I just know it."

Dean has eaten every meal sitting in his brother's front seat, done quite a bit of research at a table he set up just outside the door with the windows rolled down, and fallen asleep in the backseat one night. Bobby has joined them for several hours cumulatively, but left them alone for a decent amount of time as well. Though he's still a car of few words, Sam is overtly grateful for the company.

It is at this time that Bobby gets a call from a hunter friend two states over who hurt his leg on the job and needs help taking down a nest, a strange alliance between vamps and werewolves. Bobby leaves an hour later, predictably apologetic but matter-of-fact. He promises he'll call with updates and be back within the week, leaves Dean in charge of the phones, and threatens to take his head off if any of his books are destroyed or missing when he gets back. And then he's gone.

Another hour later Dean realizes he's going to have to be separated from Sam a lot more often now if he has to man the phones.

* * *

He looks at some notes Bobby threw together before he left on how to be a convincing FBI authority over the phone—really more of a script made of bullet points than anything else. It's helpful to be able to just kind of read from it. Calls don't come too often—there are about four the first day, and Dean misses only one of them, which comes around dinnertime. He's eating a cup of Ramen in the driver's seat, complaining about the handwriting in some of the tomes he's been reading and listening to Sam complain about how he feels like he ought to be able to honk the horn, but can't.

* * *

"I feel like my brain is leaking out of my ears," Dean says the next day.

"I'm inclined to point out that I don't _have_ a brain currently," Sam says. "But I recognize that, although it inexplicably doesn't stop me from being able to see, I don't have eyes either, or hands, or a body small enough to fit through a door, which has earned me a get-out-of-research-free card." It's probably the longest he's spoken in the last week, though the locution doesn't come without its pauses.

"I feel like I'm just reading the same things over and over, 'cause I am."

"So you're no closer." It's not a question.

Dean freezes. And lets out a small, shaky exhale, trying to figure out a way to be honest but not appear hopeless. "Not really. But I ain't givin' up. I just don't think the answer is in any of Bobby's books."

No reply comes. Dean hopes it was the right thing to say.

* * *

"This is just so ridiculous and childish" is how Dean greets Sam a few hours later after going inside to grab some dinner. "I've been turning things over in my head, like, who's more powerful than or as powerful as Gabriel? Other than God, there's just the other archangels. As of our last meeting, we're not on the best of terms with Raphael. Lucifer's a 'Hell no.' That leaves Michael. Who would probably want something from me before granting any kind of favor."

Sam is silent, letting him continue.

"How would that conversation even go? 'Your douchebag brother turned my brother into my car. He's dead now, sorry not sorry for your loss. Little help?'"

"Dean," and now Sam actually sounds… worried. Which, as it happens, is a step up from the emotionlessness of his already automated voice that has been evident for the last few weeks. "You're not thinking of…?" He trails off, but his meaning is obvious.

"Saying yes?" Dean waves his hand vaguely. "No, man, of course not. I mean… They want this fight to happen, which means you need to be not a car, right? Wouldn't they do it free of charge?"

"It's anyone's guess. They might be able to see how desperate you are and offer an ultimatum. And you're not trading the world to make me not a car." Though firm, his voice is dull again, lacking the vehemence that would normally accompany the words.

Dean kicks the gravel. "I knew you'd say that."

"You don't agree?"

"…Of course I do. But like I said, ridiculous and childish."

* * *

He wakes up face down on the gravel. He doesn't remember going to bed, or how he got here. But the sun's high in the sky, and in place of the Impala—his brother—stands Gabriel.

Dean sits on his heels, gaping, until the already-smirking angel exclaims, "Surprise!"

Immediately Gabriel has to dodge Dean's flying fist, which he does just by vanishing in a flurry of invisible wings. Dean stumbles forward, landing on his hands, the punch having been sloppily attempted from a not-even-standing position, and Gabriel's voice sounds behind him: "I saw that coming weeks ahead of time."

Dean turns around, climbing to his feet, wide awake by now. He looks down, and around, and having confirmed that he is in the same place while Sam is not, he locks eyes with the archangel and growls murderously, "What did you do with him?"

"Relax, your little Sammy's fine," Gabriel says dismissively.

"Fine? You made him a car. That's not what I call—Wait." Dean takes a step back. "You're dead."

Gabriel shakes his head, but he's grinning despite himself. "Slow, ain't ya?"

"I mean you're not Gabriel," Dean snarls, frustrated and confused and not at all happy. "You can't be. Cas said—"

"Cas?" Gabriel appears to think hard. "Oh, Castiel? My li'l bro?" And he changes. His eyes turn blue, his features resize and reposition themselves, he shrinks just a touch, and in a fraction of a second Dean is not staring down Gabriel, but Castiel, trench coat and all. The angel in front of him changes his expression from mirthful to mournful, and he tilts his head exaggeratedly, and says, "I _did_ tell you he was dead, didn't I, Dean?"

Dean blinks, and the familiar smartass face of the Trickster is before him once again.

He actually stumbles. Once he rights himself, he says faintly, "Cas was…"

"Wasn't Cas, Einstein. You haven't seen Cas since TV Land. When I 'brought him back'? An illusion. But I did a fantastic impression, wouldn't you agree?"

Dean searches for words. For some reason, the ones he settles on are "Why pull back the curtain now?"

"It's been forty days." Gabriel shrugs. "Well, forty, forty-two, I dunno; they're both good numbers, so I say close enough. Dad's used it before—if it ain't broke, don't fix it. And you were starting to talk serious—I figured it was time to let up."

"Why?" Dean asks, and his voice breaks embarrassingly, only he doesn't care at all. "Why did you do all this?"

"Listen, hot shot, if you think I had some grand lesson in mind that gives a profound point to all of this—well, I'm flattered. But eighty percent of my deceptions are just for my own amusement."

Dean does not hesitate in taking another swing. Of course, his fist connects with nothing, and when he straightens up not only is Gabriel gone, but so are both his hands. He lets out a shout and jumps two feet into the air, and stares at the gaping holes at the ends of his arms.

"That's enough of that," says the archangel's voice behind him. Dean whips around. "And I swear to Dad, if you try kicking me I will start getting creative."

"Fix Sam," Dean orders, shoving his stumps into his pockets, not breaking eye contact.

Gabriel also maintains eye contact, and narrows his eyes after a few moments. "Okay," he concedes. "It was hilarious, yes. I laughed a lot. Not gonna lie. Though about halfway through it started gettin' a mite too angsty for me. Seriously, watching you two, you'd think you were watching a soap opera. It was like Tuesday all over again."

Dean waits.

"But," he continues after a moment, "I'm also giving Sam some experience."

Dean narrows his eyes. "With what?"

"With not having control. With giving himself up for the greater good."

"You ass." Dean has to admit Gabriel made a good call getting rid of his hands, or he'd definitely be throwing more punches around now. "He didn't 'give up' control. It wasn't for the 'greater good.' You put him inside a Chevy. Non-consensually. How does that help anyone?"

He shrugs. "You two clowns spend your whole lives inside that Chevy anyway."

"Damn your threats, I will bust open your ass with my foot."

Gabriel doesn't seem fazed or amused. "I don't suppose you noticed how you haven't needed to refuel since your bro and your ride became synonyms?"

"Of course I noticed."

"Man, I thought that was pretty brilliant, but I shouldn't be surprised to have to spell it out for you apes."

Dean waits, though his righteous fury is slowly fading into just… tiredness.

"Since Sam has been inside that hunk of metal, _he's_ what's been keeping it going. More specifically, his soul."

He keeps waiting. He's not sure whether he should be even more concerned by this new information.

"It takes way less soul power than gasoline to run anything. So, you're welcome. And it's a metaphor, moron. Sam's spirit needed a vessel—once I removed it from its usual one, anyway—and it being inside that car helped said car do what it was made to do."

Dean blinks. And stares. And finally says, "That is so much more of a stretch than the whole TV thing, and man that is _saying_ something."

Gabriel sighs a little. "Alas, to be an unappreciated artist. Then again, this was the angelic equivalent of fingerpainting, and sloppy fingerpainting at that, so… Fair enough."

He snaps his fingers once.

* * *

Dean sits bolt upright, and it feels like waking up, but it doesn't feel like he was asleep.

His brief mental attempt to describe the sensation stops dead when he realizes he's sitting in the driver's seat of the Impala. And all mental function comes to a standstill when he glances in the rear view mirror and sees

his brother,

Sam,

wearing the white T-shirt and sweats he went to bed in the last time Dean saw him,

eyes shut, mouth open, head back,

propped up in a sitting position in the back seat.

* * *

Dean's still put out that Sam refuses to just be the "little brother," and is reminded of this as he struggles to carry his unconscious ass inside. Sam's breathing and honestly seems perfectly sound, at least physically, but he's dead asleep.

Dean makes it to the nearest guest bedroom and hauls Sam onto the bed in it. He tosses a sheet on top of him, realizes both his long legs are hanging off the edge, pulls them onto the mattress, gets them tangled up in the sheet, and finally just leaves well enough alone.

He pads to the next room over, and as he drops himself onto the bed he remembers that this is the one with the giant spring that sticks into his leg when he gets into a certain position, but he is one hundred percent sure he can handle it. Not that he feels like he could stay awake long enough to move anyway.

* * *

He sleeps for fifteen hours. He wakes up with crust in his eyes and a sour taste in his mouth but aside from that, he feels amazing.

It's a hectic first few seconds, because after it mentally registers that he feels amazing, but before he's quite fully awake, he springs up out of bed, and rushes to the next room to make sure that whole conversation wasn't a dream. Which, knowing angels, especially this one, is extremely possible.

The bed next door is empty, but has obviously been slept in.

It is at this time that Dean hears the faint clink of china plates as someone removes one from a cabinet, and he almost runs into two walls in his mad dash to the kitchen.

His brother's back is turned when he enters the kitchen. The counter is covered with used dishes, and the fridge, currently hanging open, looks a lot emptier than it was last time Dean saw it.

Sam turns around, one hand full of dirty silverware and the other holding a chicken wing. His green eyes meet Dean's, and he says, his voice perfectly human, "Dude, I have never been this hungry."

He drops most of the silverware when Dean goes in for an embrace, but neither of them cares.

* * *

"Honestly, it's already pretty fuzzy."

Dean stares at him across the table, every inch of which is covered with plates of food. "You're kidding."

"I'm not." Sam gives a soft chuckle, which Dean understands to be the equivalent of a shrug and a _You got me_ , and reaches for the second large bowl of salad he's made.

"Then," Dean says, and stops. Thinks for ten seconds. Starts again. "Then I guess we can forget it happened. Except that we need to thoroughly kill Gabriel and figure out what he did with Cas. Probably not in that order."

Sam's hand stops, and he swallows a mouthful of lettuce. "Cas?"

"I have no idea where he is. Hell, he might be free now, I don't know." Dean exhales, and rubs his head. "We'll save him. If he needs it. But… for now, we need to rest. Just a little. Take care of all calls till Bobby gets back, get you back in the human swing of things, and get all this food eaten."

Sam smiles widely. Dean didn't realize how much he's missed his stupid dimples. "Sounds like a plan."

* * *

As they're cleaning up, Dean realizes that Sam has just been standing at the sink letting the water overflow in his cupped hands for a full minute. Sam obviously feels him watching, as he looks up and meets his eyes readily.

He says, "Lucifer's never getting my body, Dean."

A smile spreads across Dean's face, the biggest one he's produced, he thinks, since he regained his youth after the whole poker incident. It feels just as good—seeing Gabriel screwed over is much more satisfying than finding out Patrick had been.

He realizes that both times, the smiles were pretty much a direct result of Sam's actions.

"Damn right," he says after a moment. "And I'll be with you all the way."

* * *

 _No, there's not really supposed to be a plot. This was written mostly for fun… but turned out to be pretty darn angsty? I dunno._

 _I claim no rights at all to Supernatural or any hypothetical profit I might be getting from this plotlessness (but am not)._


End file.
